


But Then Begins a Journey

by Dreaming_Spire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Eventual Smut, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The case is less-than-unusual, but Sherlock's focus is diverted. The theater of the mind is demanding equal time.</p><p>An intro to a Johnlock gift exchange for XistentialAngst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Then Begins a Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XistentialAngst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XistentialAngst/gifts).



Contrary to John Watson’s firmly-held belief, Sherlock Holmes is not completely helpless when it comes to transport maintenance: that is, Sherlock does sleep when he must. Occasionally, but admittedly not often, Sherlock even welcomes the downtime that sleep affords him. There are the pleasing instances of taking his brain offline – when, after a case, he falls into bed for days at a time, allowing his mind to pause and the world to accumulate more information while he’s away. These are deep, black slumbers, and when he wakes, Sherlock brings nothing back but a readiness to restart his work. Then, there are the times when his mind keeps working, times that Sherlock finds alternately fascinating and annoying. His subconscious cooperates in some cases, moving information and ideas around, sliding puzzle pieces into a scene that Sherlock interprets upon waking; these dreams are close to the times when he walks through the memory palace, and although Sherlock would prefer not to admit it, he almost enjoys the challenge of connecting sleeping ideas to waking facts.

What Sherlock does _not_ enjoy are irrelevant dreams, dreams that stem from background noise, from mental clutter attempting to force its way into the forefront of his brain. He especially dislikes the ones that attempt to stay with him throughout the day, nagging at him until he forcibly deletes them. These are full of unwanted connotations, unpleasant situations – many of them feature Mycroft in a variety of irritating, inescapable circumstances. One particularly distasteful dream involved being tricked into a sea-voyage in a rowboat with only Anderson for company, further complicated by Anderson sprouting a beak and pecking off Sherlock’s toes while chattering about fingerprints. Preposterous, of course, and yet Sherlock was in a foul mood for hours after shouting himself awake.

So when he realizes he’s dreaming, he’s understandably displeased. Up until then, he’d been quite engrossed in the play he was watching – the actors had ceased speaking, or at least, Sherlock could hear nothing, which made the play all the more interesting, as he was able to predict the actions with less information. The challenge was more than agreeable, and John had just looked up at him and murmured “Brilliant,” again. However, realizing that the rest of the audience sits on a grassy hill, watching them instead of the performance on stage (no, not a stage, a circle marked out in dirt and ringed by footlights) is irksome enough, and noticing that the audience seems to be made up of creatures with wings and horns, and – bugger, creatures straight out of _A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream_ , which of course, is the play being performed in the circle - does not please Sherlock in the least. He struggles to his feet, or tries to. “John. I’m leaving.”

John looks hurt by this, and Sherlock feels (ridiculously) sorry for a moment. Then Titania – or Mab, or whatever the imperial-looking female fairy who reminds him uncomfortably of Mummy is calling herself – glares in their direction. “Mortal. Since our amusements please you not, _you_ shall provide the scenes for this evening’s diversions.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John is tugging at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and suddenly, Sherlock can only think about how damnably good John’s fingers feel when they brush against him.

He realizes he’s been stroking John’s hair the entire time; John’s been watching the play with his head laid in Sherlock’s lap, _and isn’t that a fair thought_ , Sherlock tries to say, and can’t. He’s struck dumb by what he knows he’s only imagining as John’s hair, that it’s not this color – not anymore, he’s seen pictures of John when he was younger, hair darker, longer, the slight curls that smooth out under his hands. John’s busily parting Sherlock’s now-unbuttoned shirt, licking and nipping a trail down to Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock knows the audience can hear him whimper, despite the fact that the sound stays in his mouth. He doesn’t care, though, since John’s mouth has moved over him, taking his achingly hard cock past soft lips, teasing it with a tongue that ought not to have such perfect knowledge of what Sherlock wants. Sherlock does want this, even though awake, it’s not even something he’s considered. He knows John wants this, or this John does, eager and pleased to please him, even though the real John has no experience in this area, would fumble through this, even if he would consent, which he probably wouldn’t. But dream-John wants Sherlock, looking up at Sherlock, whose hand is still tangled in his beautifully soft hair. Sherlock looks only at John, ignoring the crowd around them.

He feels his muscles tense, feels John’s hand moving faster, mouth sliding along Sherlock’s length in perfect time. He comes with a shout, and wakes, disoriented, sticky, alone and unsettled. Tying his robe around himself, Sherlock stalks to the bathroom, only to see John making his way towards the kitchen.

“Morning, Sherlock,” John says, yawning.

Sherlock says nothing, staring at John’s mouth. The realization that he does, in fact, very much want to fuck his flat-mate has swarmed out of his dream and planted itself immovably at the front of his mind. With a barely suppressed snarl, Sherlock retreats to the toilet and slams the door. He avoids the mirror.


End file.
